The Disappearing Man
by johnsarmylady
Summary: Sherlock and John knew it wasn't possible for the man to disappear - but it would seem that's exactly what he did do. Rated T for mild swearing, a birthday gift for the talented and wonderful jack63kids.


**I asked jack63kids for four words that she would like in her birthday gift, and an idea of how she wants the story to go. The words she gave me were 'Er', an Anglo-saxon swear word of my choice (mild), 'Strewth' and 'Disney-Princess'…Jack, I hope you enjoy reading this little birthday gift as much as I enjoyed writing it :)**

Sherlock and John burst through the heavy double doors of the posh hotel conference room, did a double take and then looked at each other in bewilderment. It was as if they had stepped into a scene from 'Columbo', as a room full of Santa's turned and stared at them.

"**Er**…do you think we should…." John gestured vaguely at the red suited men.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned to face the room.

"Apologies for disturbing your evening gentlemen," he began, pausing as every Santa in the room started talking excitedly to his neighbour.

Clearing his throat Sherlock tried again, raising his voice to be heard above the din.

"Did anyone see a strange man run in here a few moments ago? Can you tell me where he went?"

The talking stopped as suddenly as it had started, and a tall, rotund figure stepped forwards.

"The only strange men in here are you two." He said in a voice which was high pitched and squeaky, and totally at odds with his overall appearance.

Acknowledging this with a nod, Sherlock retreated. John had already stepped out of the room, and was leaning against the wall, bent double, holding his sides and giggling.

"Really Sherlock?" John spluttered, gasping for breath. "A selection of Santa's?"

"A cohort of Clauses?" Sherlock's laughter rumbled up from his belly, belying the gravity of the situation – that somehow their perpetrator had run through a door and disappeared into thin air.

"Where is he?" Sally Donovan's voice brought them back to the matter at hand.

"He ran in there," John struggled to keep the grin from his face. "And we lost him."

"Lost him?" The Detective Sergeant sneered. "Is this the great Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson finally admitting defeat?"

Sherlock bristled, then smirked and said

"You are welcome to interview the person who is currently in there….."

With a theatrical huff, Sally barged past them, paying no heed as John started to giggle once more. She took a step into the room, then turned back to them and glared.

"You said person – singular."

"Well," Sherlock replied, deadpan, "there is only _one_ Santa Claus."

xXx

"You two are not very popular." Lestrade announced as he walked into 221B.

"We weren't trying to win a popularity contest." Sherlock's bored tones demonstrated precisely what he thought of Sally Donovan's complaint.

"Maybe Sally wasn't happy meeting Santa Clauses." John called from the kitchen, adding a third mug to the tea making paraphernalia and dropping a tea-bag into it.

"Funny John. She's convinced you two deliberately set her up, and that you managed to sneak the perpetrator out of the room." Sitting on the couch Greg sighed, ran his fingers through his short grey hair, and then grinned. "I think she's almost managed to convince herself that I'm in on it."

John handed him a mug of tea, placing another on the table beside Sherlock before retrieving his own and sitting down.

"Sherlock's been trying to work out where he went to."

"I've been back to examine the room," His eyes closed, his fingers steepled under his chin, Sherlock spoke to no one in particular. "I can find nowhere that our quarry could have hidden other than in plain sight. Sally had the opportunity to interview all of the occupants; did she get nothing of use?"

"You're kidding! You really think…."

"Problem is Greg that I think we were both more than a little surprised, I mean," John chuckled again at the remembrance, "a room full of Santa's, not your everyday sight!"

"You may have been surprised John, I certainly wasn't." Sherlock protested haughtily.

"**Bollocks**!" Laughing at his friend's disdainful expression John turned to Greg. "Look mate, there was a room full of guys in red, who by turn either stared or chattered, and when Santa started talking in a falsetto voice, well y'know, we lost it….a bit…sort of." He grinned.

Greg eyed the two flatmates suspiciously, wondering if he leg was being well and truly pulled.

"Falsetto?" he asked.

"Yes Detective Inspector, he talked like this." Sherlock, despite his natural baritone imitated the high pitched Santa perfectly, causing John to nearly choke on his giggles.

"Jesus Sherlock!"

"Now Lestrade, I suggest you go and ask Donovan about Santa Claus. One of those red suited idiots was our man." Getting to his feet Sherlock strode from the room, calling over his shoulder as he went "And you can forget the suggestion that's hovering on the edge of your mind – I won't allow John to be subjected to your team's ridicule."

And as Sherlock's bedroom door closed behind him John stared at Greg, his grin fading slightly.

"Well," the officer explained a little sheepishly, "I was only going to suggest that you go undercover for us and join the Union of British Santa's."

"No."

"But John, I'm sure they won't recognise…."

"No. Absolutely not, send Anderson."

xXx

"I don't see why I have to do it." Anderson's face was a picture of disgust as he looked at the red suit that Lestrade had handed to him. "Why can't you do it? Or Sally?"

"Because," Greg explained as if to a child "whoever this bloke is, he knows me for a copper, and Sally – as I'm sure you have noticed – is entirely the wrong sex."

"Gender." Sally corrected, walking through the room. Greg ignored her.

"I still don't see why." The forensics lead whined as he was pushed towards the toilets.

"Get in there and try it on." Lestrade gave him a shove. "And stop bloody whinging, **strewth**! I hope you can be a bit more cheerful when you join your new friends for their pre-Christmas extravaganza."

Waiting until Anderson had disappeared Greg turned back to his computer and finished off filling out the membership form for the Union of British Santa's. It was a shame that he couldn't give the man a stupid name – he'd toyed with things like Mark Thyme, Richard Head and Ivor Biggun, but even if he thought Anderson would see the humour of it, he was sure the man would forget what his name was supposed to be, so he stuck to the truth, and hoped whoever their quarry was he didn't recognise the scientist.

xXx

It had been nearly three hours since the three men and Sally Donovan had taken up their positions, each either hidden or hiding in plain sight around the lobby area of the conference centre.

John and Sherlock had stayed within sight of each other, but hidden from view, while Lestrade, also hidden, was in radio contact with Sally, who sat in one of the arm chairs supposedly reading.

Despite their close scrutiny of the lobby area, Sherlock was the only one to spot their quarry as he dropped the box in the empty fireplace.

"John!" he yelled, leaping from his hiding place.

The man looked up, then around at John who was running at him from behind. Seeing the two police officers also moving towards him he sprinted off, heading for the main function room.

In an action replay of their last encounter, Sherlock and John watched him disappear through the door, yet when they followed him through…..

"You see what I mean?" John said to Greg, not taking his eyes from the hoard of red-coated men, all standing staring as before.

Greg held up his warrant card.

"Before you all start talking at once, let me warn you that I will have every last one of you run in and banged up if you don't co-operate."

There was a scuffle at the back of the room, and suddenly Anderson was pushed forward. The man behind him, the mysterious deliverer of boxes, was not holding a knife to his throat as the police officers had maybe imagined he would. No, surprisingly he had one arm around Anderson's neck, but in his other hand he held a pair of scissors.

"Back off" he yelled his voice a distinctive falsetto.

"It was you?" Sherlock looked stunned, the expression on his face matched only by that which John was wearing.

"Yes it was me – you were talking to me, laughing at me I don't doubt, as were all these oh so wonderful Santa's. I could never get the job I long to have because of an unfortunate trick of nature that left me with the stature of a Santa Clause and the voice of a **Disney Princess**!" He tightened his hold around his prisoner's neck. "Now, out of my way or I'll cut his outfit to shreds!"

"You'll _what_?" John choked out. "His _outfit_?"

"He'll not work this Christmas!" the squeaky voice spat.

"It's debatable if he ever works at all." Sherlock said dryly, turning and walking away. "Although I wonder if he might be better suited…"

With a scream of frustration, the distraught Santa pushed Anderson aside and flew at the lanky consulting detective. He didn't reach him though, as John with economic efficiency disarmed and floored him in two easy moves.

"And the shame is," he said, looking down at the man laying sprawled in front of him "that you didn't need to be dressed as Santa to donate the toys that you leave in the boxes, there are plenty of councils that hold parties for their 'looked after' children that would have welcomed your generosity." And with that he walked away, swiftly catching up with his flatmate.

"Do you think," Sherlock asked as they walked out of the building, "that we could persuade Anderson to change his job?"

"There aren't enough child psychologists to deal with the fall out." Came the matter of fact reply.

"Ah well. Stuck with him then?"

"'Fraid so." John grinned as Sherlock hailed a taxi…..


End file.
